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Lifeboat free porn video
PART 1
Them fuckin’ Armed Services get all the credit, but who gets their asses blown out of the water to get them their crap, for chrissake? Us fuckers in the Merchant Marine, that’s who. Goddamn sub-bait. And then they don’t send nobody to fish us out. Goddamn Krauts. Goddamn war!
Cookie bobbed in his lifejacket and watched his ship disappear, a sorry excuse for a vessel, to be sure, but nonetheless, his ship.
Sailors deep-six all the time, the risk they signed on for, perhaps. Bad luck, but you gotta’ go some way. Them refugee fuckers in steerage were another thing, though. They’d no choice but to stow away and surrender once at sea. Captain probably knew they were on board at the start and was glad to help out by moving them along. The company would never know. Cookie had met a man and his crippled son on the stern and they seemed pretty regular, just couldn’t speak English. When he ladled grub to send to their quarters, he usually scooped in some extra meat. No sense arriving for a new life hungry.
The lifeboat had been as empty as a church on Monday, probably dumped by the fuckin’ deck crew. He’d scrambled over the gunwale, pulling after him a girl who must have been one of the refugees. Life’s mainly luck about who finds the lifeboat.
Nobody else floated by, not live ones anyway.
She seemed to be in her teens. Thick black braid, eyes almost blue. A lot older in her stare, though. He couldn’t understand a word she said, but fuck it, what difference would it have made?
And goddamnit, his Giants were playin’ at the Polo Grounds and it would’ve been on the short wave. Luck goes both ways, he realized; as he’d been on the ladder to the radio room when the torpedo hit. Them fuckin’ Dodgers were probably winnin’, thanks to the umps.
The sub surfaced almost beside them and a Kraut emerged from the conning tower, ignoring them, to photograph the sinking vessel. A few moments later, a seaman emerged with a rifle, looked down at the two, and took aim.
Make it clean, buddy. Don’t leave us for the sharks to finish off. Cookie begin the Lord’s Prayer, as far as he could remember it, anyway, but switched to Hail Mary, which to his surprise, all came back. It’d be good to be saying something at the end. The girl, best he could tell, was just waiting.
The sailor fired, his half-dozen rounds splashing far to their left.
What the hell?
The German — just a boy, he was — looked them over once more, motioned with the palm of his hand to lie down, and pulled the hatch behind him.
Cookie looked at the girl. We’re alive?
Krauts may be bad people — not the American ones, the Kraut Krauts — Cookie allowed, but maybe some of them aren’t all bad. When the sub got sunk — it was going to happen --, he hoped the kid would have the luck to find a life raft and make it back home after the war.
The fuckin’ destroyer still didn’t show and after a few hours, Cookie realized he’d better get to work. The boat seemed seaworthy and had its rations, but survival’s about always preparing. They’d need to catch whatever rainwater a squall brought them, for example. Merchant Marines know the drill.
The girl’s name seemed to be Mirta, something like that. His “Momma?” and “Daddy?” must have made some sort of sense to her, because she shook her head. Anyway, what difference did it make now? Probably somebody said to follow the sun until she got to the ocean, and even then, it wasn’t safe for a girl with nothing but herself. Not that it’s that safe for us out here, but at least she’s not back there. Fuckin’ war!
At least she seemed to see how a lifeboat works, rewrapping rations and even snagging an extra oar that floated by. Not that they’d row anyplace, but at least she was working.
Fuckin’ Krauts! He’d had his share of this goddam war, torpedoed once already up in the North Atlantic where it was colder than a witch’s tit. Would have died if they hadn’t fished him up. They say the third’s the one that sends you with the ship. Goddamn Merchant Marine! They’d pay you till you get sunk, but nothin’ for sittin’ in a goddamn lifeboat. Fuck everything.
But as there was no way to complain to the girl, he prepared a flare, just in case.
The rations seemed sufficient, though Cookie would have preferred more variety. He’d cooked his way around the globe enough times to know what could be provisioned if you care how it tastes.
As by the second day, still no ship appeared, Cookie knew it could be a while. The sea around them merged with the clouds above, one shade of steel into another.
The girl didn’t say anything, or better put, didn’t say anything that made sense. She didn’t even seem that affected, actually. Maybe wherever the fuck she came from, she’d had lots of ships sunk, so to speak.
When the girl let herself over the side, Cookie figured she was peeing. Cookie thought it foolish to get yourself fuckin’ wet, but maybe they’re more private where she comes from. In case that was so, Cookie did the same.
Nothin’ to do but wait.
By the next day, though, watching the swells was tiring in itself. The turn in the weather was at least a change.
When splash pasted the girl’s blouse to her, Cookie could see that there wasn’t much to her breasts, but maybe whatever godforsaken place she’s from, they don’t have enough to eat.
Nothin’ to do but wait.
Cookie had fucked plenty of women, for sure. There were whores, in fact, if their pimp wasn’t watchin’, who’d fuck him for free. It would be nothin’ to fuck this one out in this goddamn ocean. Why not? Wouldn’t hurt her any. He’d saved her life, hadn’t he? He’d prevailed on less-than-willing broads before, the ones who winked in the bar to egg him on and then out in the alley tried to play hard to get. Some gals want to fight a little, at least to push your hand away for a bit.
That night, he touched the girl’s blouse, not realizing that her eyes were open until he saw her stare.
It didn’t seem right to continue. “Didn’t mean to,” he offered, hoping she’d catch the gist.
The girl lay still after he moved away. He’d give her a little more time to get interested.
He decided he’d fuck her the next morning, but there was a fish on the line and by the time they’d finished gutting, things were too messy.
He figured he’d do it that afternoon, but a squall threw itself at them and Cookie’s attention was devoted to replenishing the fresh water.
That evening the sky was clear and the moment was perfect. He’d rehearsed in his mind how he’d hold her wrists. It would be tricky, but he’d the advantage of size. He wouldn’t mind a few scratches, though there’d be no mates to boast, “Fuckin’ dame fought like a cat, she did, then saw it my way and wouldn’t let me stop.”
But she didn’t fight, hardly even bothered to move, just looked at the sky. Her buttons didn’t match, he noticed, as he unfastened them. When he fondled her, she did nothing. Her skirt was threadbare, easy to lift. He pulled down her undergarment and she did nothing.
He unbuttoned his trousers to show her his intention. Still no reaction.
Shit! This ain’t no fun. He’d make it quick. Break out some extra rations afterward. But Jesus Christ, she’s probably been fucked through the Russian lines, the German lines, the Allied lines, for chrissake! Raped or whored, it mattered none.
Fuck it. Maybe he didn’t need to do it right now. He needed to be watching the horizon.
Unsure of how to redress her, he draped her with a sail, but as the canvas felt coarse, he replaced it with his jacket.
He’d keep watch for a while, maybe rethink the Giants’ batting order. Been leavin’ too many goddamn runners on second. Did they maybe beat the fuckin’ Dodgers?
A shooting star passed overhead, heading west.
When Cookie awoke, the girl was dressed, boiling a fish over a Sterno. She’d fashioned a scarf out of some sacking and had it over her head. He knew she watched him while he washed his face.
Shit! he decided. She’s still cold and gestured for her to keep the jacket.
When she nodded, he could see the blue in her eyes.
For fish stew, it wasn’t bad. Boiled fish is better than tinned beef. Maybe where she’s from, he decided, they know how to boil it better than we do.
The breeze blew their lifeboat onward to wherever breezes blow.
As the vessel that at last came upon them was British, nobody on it knew shit about baseball.
The two were debarked in Sierra Leon, where the American Consulate would tide Cookie over until a Yankee ship could sign him on. The lieutenant was up on the pennant race, and though he was holding out for the Phillies, invited Cookie to bunk in the guard barracks. “We Marines need to heal each other out,” which Cookie thought well of, as he was just a Merchant Marine. Cookie, in return, could mess them up some better chow. Fair deal, as there wasn’t anything else to do in this rat hole and Marines deserve decent chow.
If anyone could understand the girl, though, to get her to where she was headed, Cookie couldn’t find the fucker. The first evening he found her sitting in the square. As it wouldn’t be right to leave her there, a white face amidst the black, he found her a room let by a Negress. It didn’t set him back much. As she had to eat, he passed a few dollars and what he liked from the larder of the guard barracks. The one thing that they did have lots of in this place was scarves, and he bought her a new one — red, yellow and green — from a boy who flew them from a pole.
She smiled when he presented it to her, and as it did seems like a special moment, he bowed in return. “It makes you pretty,” he said, though of course she didn’t understand English. She smiled bigger.
He could tell that she welcomed a familiar face. He’d announce himself with, “Greetings, Miss. Blue Eyes,” and she’d respond with what he figured meant “hello” where she came from. He’d chat sometimes about things he’d seen at sea, whales and such, and sometimes about things he’d seen in port, barefoot coolies with 100-pound sacks on their heads and such Not that she could understand any of it, but being stuck in a godforsaken’ place like Freetown, it’s good to chat.
At first he thought of the visiting as killing time, but then their time together began to be something to which he looked forward. Although he understood none of the words, he knew that she was telling him about her home, and that she understood when he said he was sorry. When he said it, he meant being sorry about what the war had done, but after he said it, he realized he was telling her that he was sorry about the thing he’d almost done.
One afternoon, nothing much to do, Cookie stepped into the Church of the Sacred Heart. It had been a long, long while since he’d been in such a place. He didn’t mind that the priest on the other side of the screen was as black as coal; it was better, in fact, him being such, as he probably hadn’t understood any of what Cookie had said. He’d just wanted to say it out loud.
The cleric suggested twenty Hail Marys, a pretty light sentence, it seemed to Cookie, and then pulled the curtain aside and aside. “Welcome back, my son.”
“Welcome back?” wondered Cookie. He’d never been here before. This padre must have confused him with some other sailor. We all probably look the same to him.
The priest told him that the Blessed Virgin would protect him on his onward journey.
He didn’t deserve more protection, himself, Cookie figured — overdrawn on that account, he was — but he lit a candle for the girl and did another twenty to help it stick. As the father seemed to be looking out for a bunch of raggle-taggle nigger kids and Cookie had spotted a carton of spam the Marines wouldn’t miss, he’d drop it by the next day, just leave it by the candles.
That he did, but maybe they could use some tinned meatballs. For sure, some Hershey’s. Might need a kid to two to help him carry, but that wouldn’t be no problem. Afterwards, maybe he’d teach them somethin’ about baseball.
Maybe he’d bring the girl along to show her how his church works. Maybe she’d be willing to help out cooking up the spam. He’d show her how. Gotta’ to be fried right or it tastes like salted cardboard.
The priest told both of them that blessing can come out of trial when you ask.
This goddamn port had an English newspaper, but it didn’t report shit about the pennant race. The fuckin’ British influence, he judged, nothin’ to do with them being black, as American niggers know who’s how many games out.
Fortunately the consulate received the scores by wireless, and between Cookie and the head honcho, a Cubs man, unfortunately, it was crystal clear that the Giant’s batting order needed to be changed. The White Soxs, Cookie could understand, but the goddam Cubs? You gotta’ stick with your team, the other explained, with which Cookie agreed.
When an American freighter at last hit port, they needed a cook to replace the one who got in a bar fight and Cookie stopped by the square to tell the girl that he’d be on his way. The wave she understood, but maybe he should shake her hand as well. After all, they’d been on a lifeboat together.
But who’s then gonna’ get her out of this shit-hole?
The Cubs won that day and his new baseball buddy saw Cookie’s point that as the girl had been traveling on an American ship, she’d had to have had some sort of papers, the argument improved by omitting how she’d come to be on board. It wouldn’t be that hard to issue her something to get her on her way. “That’s why they made you the consul, right?”
Cookie wasn’t sure that the girl understood why he brought her to the office, but she must have realized by its armed guard that it was an important place. Maybe she thought Cookie was some sort of important guy, he hoped, by the way, that the Marine at the gate and the boss-man inside seemed to know him.
The girl’s name was Mirta; of that Cookie was sure. For family name, maybe she’d said “Ozbekchi.” When she understood that the question was about her age, she held out ten fingers twice, then four, surprising Cookie. She knew some Russian words, but a seaman on the British freighter said she didn’t know much. Must be from one of them fuckin’ places no one’s heard of, maybe “Postacbrez.” You gotta’ fill in somethin’.
Cookie gave an address on the Lower East Side for her supposedly-waiting kinfolks. Her father works for the Sanitation Department, as a public servant always looks good.
Leaving the consulate, Mirta looked at a poster of the Statue of Liberty for the longest time and took Cookie’s hand until they reached the gate.
It was the greatest country on earth, Cookie told her, a place where you’re safe, a place where you’re free, a place where you can make a new life. He doubted she understood his words — he’d maybe made it more like a speech, and he was no speaker — but he hoped that she’d garnered something of his certainty. Holding her hand made him pretty proud to be an American.
The purser wasn’t about to take on a fareless passenger, but the newly-signed cook assured him that this one was also a cook herself. Grand Hotel in Postachbrez, figuring it sounded impressive. Save havin’ to hire a galley assistant. Cookie wasn’t that sure about her kitchen ability, other than what she’d done with the fish, but when he showed her the works and pointed to a picture of a cake, she seemed to know where to start. He’d never tasted one with nuts and found it not bad. You can be a cook for years and still learn new ways.
Cookie could have taken her to his bunk, there beside the galley; they probably thought he was doing it, anyway. Maybe she owed him something, but if it was settling a debt, it would make her a whore, and that she wasn’t, no matter what she’d gone through. And anyway, she’d settled any debt by giving him something to do right.
She’d bought a brassiere in Freetown, larger than needed, but there, they just sell big ones. It gave the crew less reason to eye her, he figured. He’d occasionally see a breast when her undergarment fell loose, but he tried not to look. Sometimes he forgot, though.
The crew’s attention was additionally discouraged by the flash of steel as Cookie cubed beefsteak while reading a tattered Look. It was just as well that they took her to be his girl.
That a cook and his assistant must dance closely has nothing to do with the two-step, which Cookie knew a little. It’s to do with anticipation. A galley’s too small for errors. A helper with a filleting knife makes a left, thinking the cook’s on the right, when actually, the cook’s on the left, and cook gets cut, not the cod. Cookie figured that being on the lifeboat, maybe she’d learned some professionalism, but then again, maybe they’d just come to think more the same.
But the best of dancers can misstep. While the ship listed as the two kneaded bread, he bumped her hip. She’d at first moved aside to where she couldn’t work the dough, but when it happened again, she ceased scooting. Cookie was the one embarrassed, actually.
Cookie would take her hand to show her how to crack two eggs, one blow, or peel a potato the Navy way, not the foreign way. He liked how their fingers interlocked.
Sometimes in passing through the storeroom door, their bodies would for a moment press. Sometimes at the stove, a small breast would touch a burly arm.
When Cookie whacked his head on the goddamn hatch, Mirta cradled him against her while she bandaged him up. She told him a story, a happy one, he could tell. Worth the wound, he told himself, letting her hold him past when the bleeding stopped.
Thinking of her got him excited at times. He’d not have been a sailor if he couldn’t snap to attention, his justification. But as it wasn’t just about that; it just didn’t make no sense.
Cookie could teach her some her English, he figured, say oven temperatures. Once when he’d had an erection and she’d backed into him, she’d blushed, but maybe it was because of a counting error.
But you don’t take advantage of someone you’re escorting to America on behalf of the U.S. government. You do what any rated Merchant Marine would know to be right. They think we’re just bruisers, and maybe sometimes we are, but we’re good men, even if we do slip up now and then.
It wasn’t half-bad to have someone like her around. He sometimes even peeled the damn potatoes and he was the goddamn cook.
He liked it when she joined him in the radio room to listen to ballgames. He’d move coffee cups on the chart table to indicate the fielding positions and demonstrate a home run by running the saltshaker around the diamond. She didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, but it didn’t seem to matter. She did learn how to say “firs baz, secon baz, therd baz, home,” however. You gotta know something when you get to America.
Even as she picked up more language, Cookie realized that she’d not understand how he thought about her as he wouldn’t know how to say it.
Once a sailor, an ancient one, spent from coiling cable in the elements, entered the galley. The boatswain had said the old timer marined the last war as well. The gentleman finished his soup, studied last year’s calendar, and then rolled dice, right hand vs. the left. Jesus H. Christ! Cookie thought, looking at himself if he made it that far.
Approaching Manhattan at daybreak, Cookie was on the deck when he saw Mirta alone, adjusting her scarf and facing into the headwind. For him it was just another westbound crossing — albeit a long one — but then again, it seemed a crossing over waters never before charted. He shuffled his feet to announce his presence.
“Almost there.” Cookie wondered if she’d heard. “A great place.”
She nodded and he laid his jacket over her shoulders and spoke of skyscrapers, Coney Island, Rockaway Beach, Brooklyn Bridge, the Giants. He so much wanted to tell her that everything would be fine.
Mirta didn’t understand much of what he said, Cookie realized, but at the end looked him in the eye. “Sankew, Cokie.”
Cookie asked the Blessed Virgin to be with her. Mirta was herself a little like the Blessed Virgin, he thought. “I’ll miss you,” and took her narrow hand in his beefy one. He really would.
Cookie didn’t know what Mirta expected when they sailed past the Statue of Liberty and she burrowed into his sweater. Yes, he’d miss this girl.
There was, of course, no one awaiting her and Cookie didn’t have much to do. These fuckin’ places are pretty much the same, he admitted. He’d ship out, soon as possible.
The two entered the city, passing from one neighborhood to the next, her listening all the time. She clung tightly, but her steps became longer. He liked the idea that the New Yorkers might think the broad on his arm was his gal. He liked having her there, even if the fuckers didn’t notice.
Once as the two pushed toward a turnstile, his elbow crossed the buttons of her blouse, a breast within the too-big African brassiere. When it happened again, this time at a crosswalk, he turned in search of a sign. “Lexington,” he offered, his arm remaining.
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